The Giant Rat of Sumatra Part II

Sherlock Holmes rode along in a coach through the streets of Liverpool.

Across from him sat a tall thin man with auburn hair and a prominent auburn moustache and piercing blue eyes.

Holmes noticed the man staring at him intently.

Finally when the man had finished gazing at Holmes, he leaned back in his chair and said, "So you're the world's greatest consulting detective."

Holmes looked back at the man, "So you're an extremely skilled veterinarian who runs an omnibus service through the seaside resort of Morecambe."

The man laughed, "I won't ask you how you know that, Mr. Holmes. I've heard all about your amazing powers of deduction and observation. When people ask you how you know what you do about them, they come off feeling rather foolish because when it's explained to them, it seems so profoundly simple."

"I'm afraid though I can't deduce your name," the detective held out his hand, "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Fred Clegg," the man grabbed the detective's hand and shook it in a firm masculine grip, "Nice to meet you."

"I take it you'll be examining the animals as soon as they get off the Matilda Briggs," Holmes said.

"That I will indeed, Mr. Holmes," Clegg nodded, "though I gather most of the animals I'll be examining aren't in my regular area of expertise."

"That's all right," Holmes smiled, "being a ship's nanny to see it pulls into the docks safely isn't my area of expertise as a consulting detective either."

"Indeed it's not," Clegg smiled, "so why are you doing it?".

"The fee is good," Holmes answered, "plus it piqued my curiosity as to why they felt it necessary to have a detective serve as an escort for their animals."

"And what do you intend to do with all the fees you've earned over the years as a consulting detective?" Clegg asked.

"I hope to buy myself a bee farm someday and raise honey," Holmes took his pipe out of his pocket.

"Speaking of honey, I recall hearing once about a bishop of Constantinople who was such a powerful preacher with a golden voice that they called him the honey tongued," Clegg remarked as he looked out the coach window as they passed an Anglican church, "I gather since he was the honey-tongued, he wouldn't be as boring as some of the fellows who preach in pulpits in places like that."

"Ah yes, Saint John Chrysostom- Saint John the Honey-Tongued or St. John the Golden Mouthed," Holmes removed some tobacco out of a pouch, "the famous Patriarch of Constantinople- he whose liturgy is sung in most Eastern Orthodox and Eastern rite Catholic Churches- the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom. His Feast Day is January 27th- the Feast Day of St. John Chrysostom. Mozart was born on January 27th- that's why his full name was Johannes Chrysostomos Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart."

"An encyclopedic memory, Mr. Holmes," Clegg winked.

"Thank you," Holmes stuck some tobacco in his pipe, "of course having an encyclopedic memory is not always a good thing. What you were saying about boring preachers earlier- one Christmas Eve I was forced to sit through a sermon preached by a Church of England vicar named Rev. Fr. Robert Molyneux who was probably the most boring speaker in history and I do not exaggerate. By the time the fellow finished his long boring totally incomprehensible sermon, the entire congregation, the entire choir, all the altar boys and all the other priests had all fallen asleep and were snoring loudly. I only managed to stay awake by seeing if it was possible to stick pins into one's eyeballs without screaming loudly."

"I take it you succeeded, Mr. Holmes," Clegg smiled.

"Yes, which is more than I can say for Father Molyneux," the consulting detective grimaced, "I suspect the man came from a long pedigree of clerical idiots and will no doubt go on to produce another long line of clerical idiots with each new generation of vicars being more boring and more incomprehensible in their preaching than the last."

"I suspect what you say is very true, Mr. Holmes," the veterinarian nodded.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" Holmes asked before he lit his pipe.

"Go ahead, Mr. Holmes," Clegg waved him on, "I smoke a pipe myself now and again."

"That's good to hear," Holmes lit the pipe and inhaled a long mouthful, "a Lloyd's of London representative had to require urgent medical attention when he sat in my smoke-filled apartment at 221B Baker Street last week when he asked me to take this case."

"Those cufflinks on your sleeves, Mr. Holmes," Clegg pointed, "Egyptian scarab beetles are they not?".

"That is correct," Holmes nodded and looked out the coach window.

Clegg turned in the direction of Holmes' gaze and looked at the street of shops and pubs, "Funny. Those beetles and this street of shops and pubs, I almost had a sense of seeing the future there for a moment."

"Oh?" Holmes looked quizzical.

"Do you think a musical orchestra might someday name itself after beetles?" Clegg asked.

"What an unusual thought to have," Holmes meditated on that, "still if this musical orchestra that names itself after beetles was made up of Liverpool residents, it might be the only possible way that Liverpudlians would ever conquer the world."

Clegg laughed as the coach turned right and veered down a street in the direction of the docks just as the ship Matilda Briggs approached.


To be continued.